


Inevitable

by zoicite



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, F/F, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Romantic?, Soul Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Wedding Night, Weddings, Yuleporn, a little canon-typical Third House Cannibalism, but tasteful?, weird wedding rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28138035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoicite/pseuds/zoicite
Summary: The teeth were Harrow. The kisses were Nav.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Ianthe Tridentarius, Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Ianthe Tridentarius
Comments: 20
Kudos: 145
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vtn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/gifts).



The blood on their dresses was dry by the time Ianthe led her bride back through the gilded corridors of the Palace at Ida. When they first arrived, Harrow scoffed at the extravagance of just about everything on the Third, turned her painted nose up at the brocade, rolled her eyes at each and every statue they passed. She was not impressed by the room Ianthe had chosen for them when Ianthe first brought her there. She seemed even less impressed now.

Harrow never recognized good things when she first saw them. She almost always had to be convinced. This room had the best of everything the Third had to offer, and here stood Ianthe Tridentarius, offering Harrow nothing but the very best in all things. The best view, the best sheets, the thickest carpet. It was the definition of comfort, the epitome of Third House luxury. The room was, and always had been, reserved for the King Undying, the Necrolord Prime. He never once set foot in it. In fact, no one had ever slept there, not God nor any of his first batch of Saints. The Third maintained it, dusted and changed the sheets, and now it felt like that effort had always been in preparation for the arrival of Ianthe and Harrowhark the First. 

They were the Gods now, weren’t they? The only ones.

Close enough.

On the Ninth, everything was done in private, secrets stashed away behind locked doors and veiled eyes and sewn tongues. That was why Ianthe agreed to this, why she waited patiently behind her new wife, her hands resting on Harrow’s waist as Harrow checked the lock on the door and slipped the key into the pockets hidden within her skirts. This was Ianthe’s concession. 

It was a compromise, and wasn’t that what everyone said marriage was all about? Harrow married Ianthe on the Third, in true Ida splendor. That morning she spread herself out on the bed and succumbed to Ianthe’s knife, albeit with a bit of a fight from certain parties. Harrow stood beside the table at the very center of the Great Hall and she accepted the filigreed box that held the sacrament when it was placed in her hands. She took the vow, placed it on her tongue and swallowed it down. She kissed Ianthe in front of hundreds to seal the deal.

And that was the end of it. There was no reception. They did not stay to mingle. There was no bed brought to the center of the Great Hall. Instead, they retreated to this room--the God Room--and locked the doors. And now that they were there, they could take each other apart with no one there to witness except their cavaliers--well, Harrow’s cavalier. Babs wasn’t witnessing much of anything these days, was he?

The door was locked and Ianthe was tired of waiting.

She yanked aside the collar of Harrow’s gown and pressed her teeth and her tongue to the unpainted skin of Harrow’s shoulder. Harrow should have expected it, but from the noise she made, the move came as a complete surprise. Harrow pushed herself up against the door, a beautiful reaction that lasted only a moment before Harrow hissed through her teeth and pushed Ianthe’s face away. She turned with retort held ready on her tongue, eyes flashing, beautifully riled, but Ianthe was ready too. She pressed Harrow up against the door, the blood-stained fabric of Ianthe's bodice pressed high against Harrow’s, mouth smothering Harrow's heated words in a kiss.

**

The hard stare of Harrowhark Nonagesimus bore through her skin and embedded itself in her heart. Like a sliver of wood. A sharp shard of bone.

She felt it, that moment that Harrow really saw her in a way that no one else had ever done. In one hand Ianthe held a fragment of a tooth--probably Protesilaus the Seventh--and in the other hand, Ianthe held a bit of bone, which in retrospect, was almost definitely the real Dulcinea Septimus. Harrow practically shook within her robes when Ianthe pointed out that it was almost definitely two people in that incinerator at Canaan House. Even Harrow’s cavalier noticed the way that Harrow studied Ianthe after that. Did Gideon Nav know that Harrow had been following Ianthe, stalked her for days beforehand and a few afterward? Did she know that Harrow tracked her every movement, scratched notes in her little leather journal, kept track of how much Ianthe knew?

She still didn’t guess.

That was Harrow’s mistake. Tracking Ianthe was a diversion and it taught Ianthe more about Harrow than it taught Harrow about her. Ianthe was good at the game, at hiding, and Harrowhark Nonagesimus was particularly susceptible to distraction. At times those distractions consumed her entirely. 

On those nights when Ianthe was certain that she and Harrowhark were the only two living souls haunting the halls of that tower, the only two who could not possibly sleep until they understood everything--until Ianthe puzzled out the secret to Lyctorhood, until Harrow had puzzled out Ianthe--Ianthe would often hear a clink of bone or a swoosh of fabric behind her in this corridor or that lab. She never let on that she knew, but she imagined how it might go. She imagined backing Harrow into some dark corner of the First and--Well. Who knew what might have happened? Gideon the Ninth wouldn’t have come to stop Harrow then; not in those days. There wouldn’t have been any interruptions. Who knew what might have happened once Ianthe had Harrow backed against a wall, once Ianthe’s hand was pushed up beneath those thick black robes. She wanted to know how the Ninth’s paint would taste on her tongue and against her teeth.

She wished she’d done it. She wished she’d planted that seed early on, though it probably wouldn’t have mattered in the end. Harrow scrambled it all when she messed around in that pretty little head of hers anyway.

Still. Another sharp look from Harrow, another appraising glance, another shove of the shard into Ianthe’s left atrium. And then the two of them--just two--still standing at the end. They’d both lost so much to win, but they would get over it. They had eternity to get over it. They were his _Saints_.

The rest was inevitable, really.

**

“I wish you didn’t insist on wearing black,” Ianthe said the morning of the ceremony. “It ruins the effect.” She pressed the fleshy tips of her fingers against the center of Harrow’s gown, between Harrow’s small breasts, right over Harrow’s heart. When she pulled her hand away, the pads of her fingers were stained red, but you wouldn’t know it just by looking at Harrow. The blood was lost in all that black.

Harrow, for her part, seemed lost in thought, her eyes a thousand miles away. Ianthe understood what that meant. Harrow had retreated inward, was talking or fighting with her cavalier, perhaps about the fuss Nav made over a simple ritual procedure. 

“Stop talking with her and look at me,” Ianthe said, coming to stand before her bride. “Why do you look so sour, Harry? I thought you were looking forward to this?”

“Like a hole in the head,” Harrow said.

Ianthe’s laugh was abrupt, surprising them both. 

“Not bad, darling,” Ianthe said. “An unconvincing lie, but funny!”

That earned her a glare, but Harrow’s eyes were still dark, still that deep chocolate brown, and when Ianthe wrapped her bony hand around the back of Harrow’s neck, Harrow turned her face toward it, pressed her lips against Ianthe’s gilded radius. 

That was how Ianthe knew the cavalier was close. Harrow would have used teeth, even against bone, but no. Nav was in there and she was awake and she was always judging, but her kisses ran soft and reverential nonetheless. Ianthe still hated her eyes. She understood that they were his eyes and because they were his eyes she should love them, but she couldn’t do anything but hate the way they looked at her. She couldn’t do anything but hate herself for still wanting Harrow even when her cavalier was at her helm, even when she knew this was more about Gideon for Harrow than it was about Ianthe. Ianthe was used to being overshadowed. She knew how to use that to her advantage, to maneuver herself through the murky recesses until she emerged into bright blinding light.

Harrow had a bit of God in her and that bit of God was a conscious pain in Ianthe’s ass.

Thank God Ianthe didn’t have to share control with Babs. 

The wedding would have happened much sooner without Gideon Nav. It could have happened while Corona was still young. Ianthe could have looked on her sister’s beautiful face as she walked down the aisle, as she pressed Harrow’s flesh to her lips and took her first official taste. She would have seen jealousy there instead of a serene mask of satisfaction.

Didn’t matter. Ianthe worked it out. She always worked things out eventually. 

In the end, all Ianthe had to do was guide them, show them that through her, they could have each other. It was easy and it made them love her.

She was the one with the body. She was the one with the _bones_. Fuck Gideon Nav, Ianthe had won the girl, and in winning Harrow, she’d win Gideon too. They had all the time in the world.

“We’re inevitable,” Ianthe said. “We’ll come together whether we want to or not. You saw how they were, all four of them up on that hunk of metal. Isn’t it better that we choose it?” 

It was difficult to get Harrow to admit that truth, that she wanted this. Ianthe proposed with Harrow’s back against the wall and Harrow’s thighs slung Ianthe’s shoulders. She proposed with her bone hand up against Harrow’s chest, holding her tight to the wall, her mouth on Harrow’s cunt, her nose buried in dark curls. Harrow was close, clit swollen against Ianthe’s tongue, back pressing against the wall in a desperate attempt to control the pace and the pressure. Ianthe brought her right to the brink and then she stopped, stilled, and pulled back. 

“Don’t,” Harrow said, hips pushing forward, knocking against Ianthe’s chin, but ultimately missing her mark. 

“Marry me, Harrow,” Ianthe said. She held back on the obvious rhyme, knew Harrow was less likely to say yes to the nickname despite the fact that _marry me, Harry_ sounded just right. “Bind your souls to mine.”

Harrow stilled above Ianthe. It was traditional, wasn’t it? Ianthe on her knees while she popped the question?

It wasn’t the first time Ianthe asked. It wasn’t even the second. She expected Harrow to curse at her the way she had then. She expected Harrow to fight away from Ianthe, struggle to disentangle herself, raise an army of bone to help.

The last thing she expected was for Harrow to look down at her, brown eyes to flecked blue. The last thing Ianthe expected was for Harrow to trace a careful finger over Ianthe’s mouth. The finger pressed into the divot at the center of Ianthe’s bottom lip, and then slid down, pulling the lip with it, a glimpse of teeth before the release.

Harrow’s hands slid back into Ianthe’s hair. Ianthe raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Yes,” Harrow said, and then she pushed her back against the wall and yanked Ianthe’s head forward, right back to where she wanted her, face buried in Harrow. That one yes was followed by a litany of others, a crescendo of yeses as Harrow convulsed against Ianthe’s tongue. 

“It doesn’t have to be forever,” Ianthe reasoned later on in the negotiations. “Forever is a very long time for a God.”

Harrow had looked at her for a long time then, just a touch of gold in those dark eyes. Eventually she said, “Don’t commit to me lightly, Tridentarius. I said yes and I meant it. I intend to hold you to your vow. I expect you to hold me to mine.”

That sounded enough like a threat that Ianthe shivered with anticipation. She could not wait to marry this girl, to spend eternity fighting for that upper hand.

Back on the bed, the morning of the wedding, Harrow pulled Ianthe in, pressed her small hand flat against the dark stain on Ianthe’s dress, and then she pressed her fingers over her lips. When she pulled them away, her fingers left vertical lines of blood, alongside the skeletal teeth she still insisted on painting over her skin. When Ianthe kissed her, she tasted like blood, a purse full of coins, like everything the Third loved and cherished. There were teeth in that kiss.

Harrow always managed to surprise her.

**

Ianthe kissed her wife against the door of their God Room, her fingers fumbling with the clasps of Harrow's dress.

This wasn’t at all how things were done on the Third. Half the fun of a wedding was watching the bed carried into the hall, seeing it placed at the center of everything, exactly where the table had stood during the start of the ceremony. It was standing in the audience, staring rapt while the newly united couple stripped off their bloody clothes and collided on the sheets. It was filing out of the hall to the sound of heavy breathing and exaggerated moans as curtains fell around them to hide only those final moments of their union. 

Imagine the look on Corona’s face had they gone through with the entire thing. Imagine the look on the Sixth’s! 

Probably for the best. There were a few Ninth nuns in attendance. They might have died right there and Ianthe would have lost her bride to all those intricate Ninth funeral rituals she’d heard so much about.

Of course, this wasn’t how marriage was done on the Ninth either. On the Ninth, marriage apparently involved more than simply painting a face to look like a skull and donning a bunch of black robes. Every single bone was traced onto each party’s flesh in luminescent powder. When the ceremony was over, they were locked into a room--sounded more like a cave to Ianthe--and when they coupled, it was in total darkness, the glow of the bones their only guide. 

Harrow’s fingers shifted toward the light switch and Ianthe caught that traitorous hand in hers. “Don’t you dare get shy on me now.”

They were not on the Ninth and Ianthe would see every moment of this. 

Harrow’s nails pressed into the center of Ianthe’s palm and her tongue pushed into Ianthe’s mouth, a blatant attempt at a coup. That wouldn’t do. Ianthe forced her back, the hard fingers of her skeletal hand pressed tight at the intersection of shoulder and neck, holding Harrow close, keeping her at bay. She leaned in close to Harrow’s ear and felt Harrow shudder beneath her fingers. 

“We’re Gods, you and I,” Ianthe whispered. She did not dwell on the fact that Harrow was a bit more God than she would ever be. It didn’t matter. Harrow might have been as ambitious as Ianthe at one time--maybe even more so--but Harrow was easily distracted and a lot of that ambition drained away as soon as Harrow realized the thing that mattered to her most was already locked inside. 

In the end, Harrow was right; the center of the Great Hall was no place for this. Ianthe and Harrow were not mere necromancers. They were not even Princesses. They were Saints. They were Gods. And they knew first hand how _unsettling_ it could be to see a God getting it on. Sometimes Ninth secrecy was essential.

Harrow’s fingers shook as she pulled at Ianthe’s dress. Ianthe held her back, the hard phalanges of her right hand pressing flat against Harrow’s chest.

“Shut her away for this, Harry,” Ianthe demanded, still close to Harrow’s ear. It sounded convincing.

Harrow shook her head. “She stays. You wanted a witness.”

Ianthe sucked at her teeth and released Harrow. She turned toward the big bed, the God bed. It was still stained with their blood from the morning ritual. Bad luck to change the sheets. She sat on the edge and slipped off her shoes. Eventually she looked back up at Harrow and was surprised to find that Harrow still had her back pressed up against the door. 

“You can’t pretend you married her. Not when I’m right here.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Harrow said, her fingers on the door’s knob. There was no key in her hand. An empty threat. Ianthe knew Harrow and there was no way her girl was running away now. “I know who I married. You’re the one forgetting you married us both.”

“Sure,” Ianthe agreed with a shrug, “and you married Babs.” What Harrow said was true though. Her situation was not the same--she was closer to God--and Ianthe sighed and shrugged in defeat. “Well, she was the first to propose.”

“How many times--it was a fucking joke.” Harrow’s tone was sharp, her coarse cavalier pushing to the front. Ianthe looked up and caught the flash of gold in those dark eyes as it dissolved back to black. 

It was monstrous, really, watching them switch back and forth. She was thankful that most of their conversations with each other were conducted silently. The ones they had out loud never did anything but give her a headache. It was different in the beginning. Once they got it under control, they took turns. They didn’t interrupt, but as time passed, as they became used to their situation, whatever ground rules they’d laid fell by the wayside until more often than not, they were both holding the reins, always ready to push forward and get the last word.

Once in a while, they managed to squeeze up close to the controls together, managed to really get in there side by side, and Ianthe stared into eyes that were black at the center and gold at the edges, like the most beautiful supernova, like a blurred rendition of the eyes of God. Sometimes the gold burst through the dark like cracks on the surface of Dominicus, gleaming in fractious patterns that made it difficult to look away. Sometimes Ianthe looked at those eyes and she believed that he still lived, that he wasn’t locked away, put down and chained up at Alecto’s side. When Harrow’s eyes burst with rims of gold, when Ianthe knew they were all pushed up against each other, souls twisted good and tight, that was when it got interesting. That was when things really took off. 

She just had to get them there.

“Yes, you’re right,” Ianthe decided. “I’ll have you both.”

Harrow’s eyes went distant. She retreated inside to discuss with her cavalier. 

It really was unsettling, this compartmentalization. At least the Saint of Duty’s cavalier had the decency to hide herself. She also fucked corpses in the dead of night though, so there was that.

When Harrow returned, she shook her head, and said, “Just me.”

Ianthe smiled, long and slow. That could be changed. She leaned back against the bed, her skeletal arm propping her up, and said: “A wedding gift. Remind me to thank her.”

**

Ten thousand lavender roses imported from the Seventh. Fifteen gold-plated skeletons poised over their cellos. Rich purple carpet runner, so thick in its hue that it immediately brought to mind blood, though the color could never be mistaken for red. The densely brocaded domes of the Great Hall of Ida. Hundreds of perfectly positioned chairs. And the filigreed box placed on the table at the room's center, the position of honor. The delicate gold skeletons twisted along the sides of the box held little anatomically correct hearts in their little skeletal hands. 

It was the sort of lavish wedding they always imagined for Coronabeth, if Corona had stayed the course rather than defecting to the other side. Instead it was Ianthe, resplendent in gold, the traditional stain of red between her breasts--still damp--while Corona sat on the sidelines and withered. The lines and wrinkles that marred Corona’s pretty face seemed to stretch longer before Ianthe’s eyes. Dear Corona had accomplished so much in her time. Twenty years apart and Corona had united empires, stitched together kingdoms in the aftermath of the Wizard War, and the fact that she was there at all, sitting beside Camilla Hect (with the ever tiring Palamedes Sextus still stuffed away inside her) and Judith Deuteros, all modestly dressed in their crisp Edenite attire, was a perfect testament to her success. The fact that the Edenites still called it the Wizard War was--well, Corona could only do _so much._

More than that, Corona was smiling. Her neck was starting to wrinkle and her skin was starting to sag a bit at her jawline. Her eyes didn’t look quite as bright anymore and her hair wasn’t as glossy, but Coronabeth Tridentarius could still command a room with a smile. Corona smiled and every shining gold-plated skeleton within a 50-foot radius instantly grew tarnished and dull.

Ianthe would not dwell on that. Instead she looked down the purple runner, down the aisle and past the central table, all the way to the other side of the hall where her bride stood waiting for the ceremony to begin. Harrowhark, Ianthe realized, was looking at Corona too, though Ianthe was sure even from this distance, that there was a bit of gold in those dark eyes. That was fine. It went with the theme. When Harrow turned and saw Ianthe staring, she lowered her veils. Ianthe blew her a kiss.

She really never thought much about marriage before she met Harrowhark Nonagesimus. She was busy becoming the best necromancer of her generation, the best her House had ever seen. She was two necromancers stuffed into one, covering for Corona at every turn, and she couldn’t help but think that made her particularly suited for Lyctorhood. A trial run. 

Marriage simply wasn’t a priority. In truth, before Harrow, all of Ianthe’s dreams of marriage were tied up in her sister. It was Corona’s day, Corona’s dress, Corona’s flowers, Corona’s blood, and Ianthe standing at her sister’s side. When Ianthe was feeling very generous, she imagined a joint wedding with faceless spouses. The spouses never mattered to anyone. It was the spectacle of the thing that counted. 

In truth, until Harrow, Ianthe had never met a single soul worth the effort.

Well. There would be no joint weddings now. Corona never married, but if she was jealous or regretful, or even nostalgic, she was doing a beautiful job hiding it. 

Corona had her sad little family--the boring Sixth, the even more tiresome Second--and that didn't even matter; she would be gone eventually. She could be gone in the blink of an eye. Not Ianthe. Not Harrowhark. 

Ianthe hadn’t really considered that when she stabbed Naberius through the back. She didn’t think about the fact that Corona would get old and Ianthe would stay exactly the same; that over time, Corona would fade and Ianthe would at last outshine her in every regard. 

Maybe that was why this wedding was so important. Maybe that was why Ianthe couldn’t give up the notion, even when Harrow’s mouth twisted with horror, even when Harrow’s cavalier laughed right in Ianthe’s face. It simply made her work harder. They had eternity and Ianthe had always been good at keeping her hands on the reins.

Oh, that’s right! She imported horses for the wedding too! 

Horses absolutely didn’t survive in the Nine Houses, had been gone a good ten thousand years, but horses were _important_ to the Edenites, who treated them like dogs they could ride if they were especially rich. Ianthe took one look at a real life horse and knew that she needed three: one an exquisitely rare (and criminally expensive) pale gold, one a perfect glossy black, and the third a youthful and exuberant chestnut red. She didn’t bother with a fourth horse for Babs. Babs was Ianthe now and that would have to be enough for him. It had been a long time since she’d felt a single complaint from Babs about it.

Tomorrow perhaps they’d feast on the horses. She hadn’t decided yet. It depended on how attached the guests became. 

Maybe she should have chosen one to represent Babs after all.

**

Harrow’s hand held tight to Ianthe’s dead fingers and Ianthe thought, not for the first time, that Harrowhark was beautiful. Harry was beautiful in the way a space insect was beautiful, sharp angles, dark shadows, big shifting compound eyes. Harrow was broken in ways that Ianthe would never understand, crushed and reassembled with a crooked wing and some pointy bits skewed just slightly out of place. She was serrated, savage and dangerous, surprisingly sexual. Her painted face was marred by the lines of Ianthe’s blood she’d dragged across her lips that morning. Ianthe wanted to bite it off, nip at Harrow’s skin until Harrow’s blood mixed in with her own. She would, probably, as soon as the time came to seal everything in with a kiss. 

There was a moment during the ceremony, when the Minister of Marriage and Materialities was discussing the jewels of the union, when Harrow’s mouth began to move, when she mumbled something to herself and looked down at the carpet between them. Ianthe assumed Harrow was taking the moment to speak to her cavalier, a fact confirmed when Harrow looked up at Ianthe again, a damp gold veneer over the black of her eyes. Ianthe took a deep breath. She knew they’d do this, try to wedge in their own little moment. It was fine. They were doing this because they needed her, and sometimes they slipped and Ianthe knew that they wanted her too. Sometimes Harrow flushed in just the right way, sometimes Gideon smiled at her with surprise. They loved her and there were times Ianthe was fairly certain they liked her, which was more than Ianthe could say for them.

Harrow did not flinch when the sacrament was offered to her. She did not hesitate to place it on her tongue. Her eyes locked on Ianthe as her mouth closed over the promise, as she swallowed her vow, and her eyes caught on Ianthe’s throat as Ianthe did the same. When it was time for the kiss, Harrow was the first to step forward, her hands reaching up for Ianthe’s face. There was a single gold vein in each of Harrow’s eyes and when Harrow kissed Ianthe it was with a sultry swipe of tongue. It was hard to imagine that that was how they did things on the Ninth. Ianthe wrapped an arm around Harrow, pulled her body flush. When her teeth caught on Harrow’s lip, Harrow’s gasp was enough, the sound of it caught by the acoustics of the room. It echoed through the rows of guests and they rippled with delight. There it was. Harrow had done it. The horses were saved.

Eventually Harrow pulled away, covered her mouth and averted her eyes, but she was a Saint now, no longer the stuffy Reverend Daughter of the House of Dead and Dying. Ianthe laughed as she caught Harrow’s hand in her dead fingers. She lifted their arms up toward the crowd in victorious celebration. 

Harrow shrank back at their raucous shouts, but Ianthe stood tall. They were young and bright and everlasting. They were Gods.

**

“I’ll do you first,” Ianthe said in the God Room the morning of the ceremony. She tested the point of the knife against the tip of her finger. “To show you how it’s done.”

Harrow crossed her arms over her chest. The shake of her head was resolute. “No fucking way.”

“You agreed to this,” Ianthe reminded her, though she’d noticed the eyes and she knew what was going to come next:

“I never agreed to jack shit.”

“You did though,” Ianthe drawled easily. “Don’t you remember? I said, Marry us, Gideon, just at the right moment. And you said--well, I’m sure you remember, but in case you don’t, I’ll remind you. It sounded a lot like this--” here Ianthe leaned back, a beautiful arch of the back as she squeezed her eyes shut and said, “Yes! Yes! Oh, _fuck you_ , Tridentarius, _yes!_ ”

All right, so Ianthe had used the same tactic with Gideon that had won her Harrow--uninspired perhaps, but it worked. Gideon really should have expected it. Maybe she did. She’d had a front row seat that first time, after all. 

“Oh, _fuck you_ , Tridentarius,” Nav said now, in a much less blissed out way than she had then. “Not even you can pretend that I agreed to this. Yeah, Harrow agreed to marry you and I agreed to marry you. Neither of us agreed to your knife in our chest. Neither of us agreed to partake in a little Third House-typical cannibalism.”

“It was all laid out very clearly. We would follow Third House customs up to the consummation. If you can’t see the beauty in this ritual, then you’re a lost cause, uncultured and crass, and I don’t know how to explain it to you. You’re good for a sword, Nav. Nothing else.”

“I’m good for a few other things,” Gideon said, suggestively. She was right. She was very good at the things Harrow’s waggling eyebrows were currently insinuating. Gideon shrugged. “I don’t get it. Why not just exchange rings? I thought the Third liked shiny things.” This Nav said as though she didn’t spend hours polishing her sword and then pretending to check it for nicks when, in truth, she was staring at her reflection, at the gold glint of her eyes in Harrow’s face. 

Ianthe sighed. “Could I speak with Harry please?”

“Could you speak with Harrow so you can shove a knife in her chest and steal a sliver of her heart?” Nav asked. “Hm. Let me think about this real hard as her trusted cavalier, as her sword and an inhabitor of her flesh. No fucking way!”

“Funny how you seem to have forgotten that our dear Harrowhark trusted me to punch a hole in her head. What’s a little heart surgery now? We only need a sliver, just a small slice. We’re Lyctors, Nav. She’ll bounce right back. You’re there to see to that, aren’t you?” Ianthe moved closer as she spoke until she was standing in front of a tense golden-eyed Harrowhark, arms wrapped tight across her chest. 

Ianthe placed one knee onto the bed beside Harrow’s thigh. Gideon looked down at it, then up at Ianthe. She was trying to look unaffected, but she knew what came next, and Gideon _loved_ what came next. She loved a woman in her lap, the press of thighs to her sides, kisses dripped onto lips and hands tangled in hair. She pretended that Ianthe was Harrow, readily admitted it, though Ianthe was Harrow’s physical opposite and twice Harrow’s size.

That was why Ianthe liked it. It always seemed there was a risk of crushing Harrow, of smothering her with one wrong move. It was so easy to pin her down and pluck off her already damaged wings. And the cavalier loved having her wings plucked. Gideon was falling into it already, Harrow’s small hands pushed up beneath Ianthe’s dressing gown to spread wide across Ianthe’s bare thighs. Her eyes were on the pointed tips of Ianthe’s breasts beneath the fabric. 

All Ianthe needed to do was scootch forward and begin lifting her hem, and Gideon fell back onto the bed, ready for what she imagined might come next, for Ianthe’s thighs straddling Harrow’s narrow shoulders, for Ianthe’s cunt pressed down on Harrow’s tongue. 

Gideon looked so eager in Harrow’s face that Ianthe almost felt bad about what she did instead. She dropped the hem of the dressing gown and grabbed the discarded knife from the bed. She had it pressed to Harrow’s chest before Gideon could think to push her off or away. Ianthe kept her hips firm on Harrow’s legs, pinning Harrow to the bed beneath her and Gideon pushed and shouted and reached out for her sword, though there was no way she’d be able to reach far enough to grab it with those short little arms. Dislodging Ianthe was going to take some work. Ianthe ground down against Gideon, pushing Harrow deeper into the bed. She rocked her hips with it, made sure it was just a little filthy, a reminder of what she could do to them, a reminder of how she could take them apart.

Gideon froze beneath Ianthe’s hands and Ianthe felt the cavalier wavering, deliberating her next move. She pressed the tip of the knife harder against Harrow’s chest and Gideon tested, pressed up against the blade. Ianthe did not relent and a small amount of blood beaded up around the point. 

Gideon fell back against the bed with a laugh. “Fuck you.”

“Later, baby,” Ianthe promised. “I’ll take good care of you later, but for this I need your Harry.”

That ‘your’ did the trick. It always did.

**

Harrow, of course, let her do it. She let Ianthe push in the knife, her fingers gripping hard to Ianthe’s bone wrist. Ianthe kissed her as she extracted the sliver of organ, palmed Harrow’s breasts and pressed her tongue to Harrow’s carotid artery, hard enough that she could feel the stubborn pulse of Harrow’s already mending heart. When it was finished and Harrow’s Lyctorhood had repaired the damage, Ianthe lovingly placed the sacrament into the box. She pulled her dressing gown over her head and pushed the knife into Harrow’s hand and then she spread out on the bed, an offering.

“Huh,” Harrow said, sitting back on her heels to stare down at her work. “There is a heart in here after all. We weren’t sure so we placed bets.”

“Who lost?” Ianthe asked around the wonderful pain of it.

“Me.”

“Harry,” Ianthe admonished. “It’s our wedding day! I thought by now you'd know me better than that.” 

"Better than anyone," Harrow said. She crouched over Ianthe and got to work.

**

There was a short period of time after Harrow returned to her body where Ianthe was sure she’d missed her chance. The Ninth spent all their time silently doing God knew what (despite the phrase, he had no idea what they were doing either, had never seen this version of Lyctorhood play out). They just sat there and stared at walls, hands twitching and eyes shifting. Ianthe could stand in front of them for an hour, could dance a jig, flash her tits, wave a hand right in front of Harrow’s face and _no one would fucking notice_. Ianthe was honestly concerned that something had gone very wrong, that whatever Harrow had done to her head short circuited something in there as soon as her soul reentered her body. Harrow sat like that for hours and then walked around with flashing eyes like warning lights.

“She’s like a printer with a paper jam,” John muttered. Ianthe made an effort to think of him as John then. “Time to change the ink.”

Ianthe was surrounded by nonsense and she sensed the danger coming before it arrived. She saw it in the way the Lord Undying--John--watched Harrow, the way he tried to connect with Gideon and failed, in the way his eyes narrowed when their souls flickered, rapid fire, black to gold to black to gold. Ianthe tried to fix it the only way she knew how--the same way she saw Mercymorn and Augustine attempt to ‘fix’ things. She kissed the Lord Undying. She did it in front of Harrow. Harrow didn’t even flinch, but he did. He gently drew her away from another dinner table on another space station and he said, “I’m flattered, really. It’s just that--well, you see, you’re a child. You’re barely older than my own daughter.”

The choice was easy after that. There was only one route to the throne. There was one way to become a queen.

That was still early on, when it was just the three of them. John, Ianthe and Harrow. That was before things got messy, before the BoE, before dear Corona and Judith and the Sixth; it was before the return of Commander Wake in Nav’s hijacked body. It was before Ianthe realized what the choice meant, before she set the plates spinning and waited for them to fall. It was before John suggested Ianthe kill her Sister-Saint, that she put her out of her misery now before things became even worse. 

When Ianthe went to Harrow with the directions she’d received, with her counterproposal, Harrow paused, then met Ianthe’s eye for the first time in what felt like an age. Her eyes were that rich dark brown, so close to black it was hard to tell the difference, like the dark chocolate Ianthe had tasted exactly once, on their sixteenth birthday. Corona swooned, instantly in love. Ianthe pretended she wasn’t impressed. It was a lie, and sometimes Ianthe wished she could lick Harrow’s eyeballs just to taste that treat again.

This time when Ianthe leaned in to kiss Harrow, Harrow didn’t turn her head or pull away. She kissed Ianthe back, a crushing press of mouths, the sharp sting of teeth against her lower lip and her hand tight around Ianthe’s bone wrist, re-claiming it as her own.

 _She’s into bones,_ Harrow’s cavalier once said, and yeah, the way Harrow touched Ianthe’s arm, that certainly seemed to be the case. The thing that Nav missed was that Harrow liked other things too. She liked kissing Ianthe’s mouth so hard that it bled. She liked tangling a hand in Ianthe’s hair and pulling tight. She liked the time Ianthe touched herself while Harrow kissed her raw. She liked the time Ianthe suggested Harrow do the touching instead. 

When they first started this, Ianthe watched Harrow, the way she gasped at each swipe of her own fingers, the way her eyes threatened to change with each rush of pleasure. Harrow was nothing like Ianthe imagined she’d be at the start. She didn’t need more than a small push from Ianthe. One small push and she kissed Ianthe’s lips and shoved her hands down the front of her trousers. It didn’t take long for Ianthe to realize what she was seeing, the flicker of gold with each touch, with each pulsing release. Harrow kissed Ianthe, but everything they did was about Gideon Nav, and before long, Ianthe realized that when she watched Harrow slide fingers over her own clit, it was Gideon she touched, and when Harrow gasped it was Gideon that made her gasp. Gideon Nav, always in the fucking way. 

Luckily, Ianthe was a genius, and she could work even that to her advantage.

They never would have tried any of it without Ianthe there to push them along the way. They were useless alone; they needed Ianthe to realize that they could still have each other. Ianthe could help. That, in the end, was the key to Harry’s heart. That was the key to her stubborn cavalier.

It was so boring and obvious. It was obvious from the moment Harry came to her with her crazed surgical plans.

Harrow kissed her and Ianthe could tell it felt to them like they were kissing each other. She touched Harrow and she could tell that they felt it like they were touching each other. Their combined imagination had to be pretty damn impressive for that to work, but it did. It brought them back to her again and again. All she needed to do was lean into it. All she needed to do was show them how much better it was with a Third as their conduit.

Ianthe had imagined how it all might progress. She started imagining it back when Harrow was a vomiting mess who barely knew herself, easily manipulated. She imagined herself pulling at Harrow’s strings, shifting the pieces until Harrow begged for Ianthe, until she needed her beyond all others.

That wasn’t quite how things panned out.

Oh, Harrow needed her. She needed Ianthe more than anyone. As for the strings, well... It turned out Harrow was pretty good at pulling strings herself. Underneath the robes and the paint--but usually with the paint still on--Harrow was far from the reserved virgin Ianthe anticipated. Virgin, yes, clearly, but a virgin who had _thought_ about this and knew what she wanted and how she wanted it done. 

Ianthe had no idea how much of that was actually Harrow and how much of it had leaked over from Nav. Ianthe saw the way Gideon Nav looked at Corona during their time on the First. She knew how Gideon spent her time with the supposed Seventh. Nothing she learned about Gideon surprised her. All of it was plainly written across her silently painted face from the very start.

“There really was nothing to drink on the Ninth, was there?” Ianthe observed early on. “I knew it was bad, but didn’t realize it was a desert.”

Neither of Harrow’s inhabitants responded, which was all the confirmation Ianthe needed. That was fine. Ianthe would be their oasis. She was brimming, overflowing, and they were welcome to drink their fill. 

**

“She really doesn’t want to join us?” Ianthe said once she’d lured Harrow onto the bed and stripped them both of their bloody gowns. She stood over Harrow, her bride still wearing her dressing gown, the fabric pooling over Harrow’s stomach, pushed up high on her thighs. It hung low on Harrow’s chest and Ianthe could see the smooth expanse of Harrow’s skin. There was no hint of a scar, just remnants of the dried blood, previously invisible on her black dress. It was convenient, this Godhood. You could cut out a slice of your own heart and come out of it looking like you’d just worked up a good theorem-induced sweat. It was impressive.

Just don’t expect to regrow your own arm.

Harrow’s eyes were hard and sharp, far too grounded, too dark, too controlled. Well, Ianthe would take care of that soon enough. 

“No. I’ve locked her away,” Harrow said, a blatant lie. Good. Half the fun was had in luring her out.

“Next time then,” Ianthe said. “One day we should try it while you’re locked away, just me and Nav. What do you think about that?”

“I think she’ll kill you,” Harrow said. “I think you’d deserve it.”

“She can try.” Ianthe set a knee on the bed beside Harrow, a perfect mirror of what she’d started with Gideon that morning.

Nav wasn’t going to try to kill her. Harrow may share a body with her cavalier, but she still did not know her. Not like Ianthe knew her. Nav’s kisses were soft. The teeth were always all Harrow.

Harrow ran a hand up Ianthe’s bare leg. She didn’t waste time lingering at Ianthe’s thigh as Gideon might have done. No, Harrow went all the way, her fingers pushing inside Ianthe before she’d even tested the waters. That was fine; delicious, really. Ianthe was ready for her, had been since they took the sacrament and sealed it all with a kiss. Another finger and and Ianthe growled as she brought her other leg up onto the bed. She settled down on Harrow’s hand, drove Harrow’s fingers as deep as they could go. With her skeletal hand, she reached for Harrow, gripped the back of Harrow’s head and pulled until Harrow gave in. Her sharp little mouth settled on Ianthe’s breast, exactly where Ianthe wanted it. That earned her a gasp, and Ianthe gave it to her, didn’t hold back. Harrow sucked at Ianthe’s right nipple, pulled at the bud with her teeth until Ianthe hissed and knocked her away, only to pull her back in for more a moment later. Ianthe impaled herself on Harrow’s fingers, her hips rising up and then falling back down, taking her in as deep as she could go. Harrow stretched her thumb so it brushed Ianthe’s clit on the way down and Ianthe rubbed herself against it, blue flecked eyes locked on Harrow’s dark brown.

It wasn’t going to be enough, that much was clear from one look at Harrow’s eyes. Harrow was holding on too tight. This time when Ianthe pushed Harrow back, she pulled Harrow’s hand away too. She pushed Harrow down until Harrow’s back hit the mattress, until she had Harrow’s wrists pinned up and over Harrow’s head, and then Ianthe leaned forward, her tits hanging over Harrow’s face as she leaned down to suck herself from Harrow’s pinned fingers. Beneath her Harrow struggled. Beneath her Harrow moaned. Ianthe held her tighter. 

“Fuck you,” Harrow spat, but when Ianthe pulled back to check, she found Harrow with her head thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut. Yes, that was good. That was better. 

Harrow was always so resistant, always fighting for control. 

_News flash, Harry baby. You lost control in there the moment you tried to sever your cavalier, the moment you refused to take your reward and eat your fill. You dropped your reins and we’ve been kicking them away from your hands ever since. No, baby, you’re ours now._

Ianthe pressed her mouth to her wife’s in a crushing kiss and felt the sharp pinch of Harrow’s teeth against her lower lip. When Ianthe turned her face away, Harrow surged forward to nip at Ianthe’s jaw, at her shoulder and neck. She bucked off the bed, attempted to regain control of her hands.

“Don’t fight me, Harry. I promised your cavalier I’d take care of you and I always keep my promises, don’t I?” 

Harrow ignored Ianthe’s request and her question, which was fine for now. They could take their time getting to where they needed to go. Harrow made sure they were locked in; they had all night. They could stay in this room for eternity if that’s what it took. One way or another, Ianthe would have them both.

She gripped Harrow’s left arm tight in her skeletal hand and brought it down to rest along Harrow’s side. She pinned it there with her knee and then did the same with the other arm. Harrow resisted, but only enough to make it slightly difficult for Ianthe, and by the time the second arm was down, a bit of gold had started to seep through the dark brown of Harrow’s left eye. 

Ah, someone was catching on, then. 

Nav’s eyes were always unsettling, and when they came through fully, not a speck of brown to be seen, Ianthe hated to see them, but like this, streaks of Nav in Harrow’s eyes, they were beautiful. More than that, they complimented Ianthe’s arm. 

A matched set.

When Ianthe shifted, moving up Harrow’s length to settle over her shoulders, Harrow’s hands, once again free, did not try to push Ianthe away. When Harrow’s hands found her, they pushed her forward, urging her into position, impatient for what unquestionably came next. Harrow would try to take back control another way, by making Ianthe lose hers against lips and against tongue. 

Ianthe looked down at the woman below her, her Harrow, her wife. She reached down to push hair off Harrow’s forehead, brushed her thumb over the space where Harrow’s faded paint ended in a thin line of pale brown skin at the edge of her scalp. Harrow’s hands pushed again and Ianthe smiled, couldn’t help but love how hard Harrow tried. Sometimes, she even let Harrow succeed, but not tonight. Tonight was Ianthe’s night to shatter and break. 

She slowly lowered herself over Harrow, her living hand pressed to the wall as Harrow kissed her, as Harrow’s tongue settled into a delicious rhythm over Ianthe’s clit. Ianthe groaned long and low as Harrow’s mouth began to light fireworks within her, pleasure that curled and sparked low in her gut. Oh, she loved this. She loved holding Harrow down, Harrow’s face buried against her cunt, the sound of each sharp intake of breath. She loved the tension in her thighs, the quiver of muscle and the curl of her toes. Harrow sucked at her and Ianthe shouted, unprepared for that whip of pleasure that cracked through her, caught on her heart good and tight. If Harrow kept going like that, Ianthe would not last long. She’d-- _oh_ , Harrow kept going, mouth insistent against Ianthe, coaxing, sucking, pulling her toward that gorgeous edge. 

Ianthe held onto that cliff, dug her toes in and refused to fall over the ledge. She shook over Harrow, body convulsing, legs threatening to give way, and Harrow fought her, just right, just there. Ianthe grabbed for the wall, propped herself up. She dove over the edge. 

The release tore through her and Ianthe cried out. She hoped that all of Ida could hear. She hoped that Corona sat up straight in her childhood bed, shocked awake by the triumph of Ianthe Tridentarius. To the victor go the spoils. Hear them call out, your Saints of the Slumbering God. 

Once she’d caught herself and controlled her shaking, Ianthe looked down at Harrow and saw that Harrow’s eyes were blown, a mess of brown and black and gold, that wonderful mélange. Harrow’s mouth was red and gleaming and she strained up toward Ianthe to press kisses to Ianthe’s cunt, desperate for another taste. 

“There you are,” Ianthe said, settling back onto Harrow’s tongue, hissing a bit, too much, too much, _more_. “Oh, my darling, there you are.”

This was Harrowhark the First. This cocktail of souls, shaken, not stirred. This was the Lyctor unleashed. These were the eyes that held the sword and tore down a resurrection beast single handed. These were the eyes that put John Gaius down. These were the eyes that thrilled Ianthe beyond all others; this explosion, this supernova, this God.

Harrow’s hands curled around the backs of Ianthe’s thighs, holding Ianthe to her as she fucked Ianthe on her tongue. Gideon was better at this than Harrow, less calculated, less prone toward pain, ridiculously eager. Together they were a marvel, a perfect mix designed to drive Ianthe insane, to confirm that every decision Ianthe ever made to bring her to this moment was the right decision, even the ones that cost her parts of her heart. 

Ianthe braced her living hand against the wall and reached down to grip Harrow’s hair in her skeletal fingers. Harrow responded with a muffled groan that vibrated through Ianthe. She rewarded Harrow with another tug on her hair, a twist and a tightening at the knuckles, and then she held Harrow in place as she rocked her hips on straining thighs, as she rode Harrow’s face to her second shaking release. 

She swore through it, beautiful words that cracked in her throat, poured out over her lips, confessions and curses, undying declarations. Forever was a long time. Ianthe would have it all.

She shifted off Harrow before she was ready, before Harrow could demand more. She slapped Harrow’s hands away when she tried to pull Ianthe back, then she fell back against the headboard, her chest still heaving as she tried to catch her breath. 

They’d destroy each other eventually, but until then, Ianthe would enjoy every minute of this. She’d kneel before the tomb and thank their sleeping King for pushing the pieces that brought them together. This explosion, this supernova, these Gods. Ianthe reached for Harrow, caught her arm and her thigh and dragged her up until she was sprawled across the bed, her ass propped on Ianthe’s thigh, her legs sprawled across Ianthe’s lap. 

She began before Harrow had a chance to fight her way back into a more dignified position. Two fingers slid into Harrow and found her soaked and ready. Harrow’s body arched in welcome. She was gorgeous like this, always was when she felt everything twice. Her body pushed up off the bed, hips undulating with every thrust of Ianthe’s fingers, each curl and press. 

Harrow was moaning, muttering words that Ianthe barely understood, her own declarations. Sometimes Ianthe thought she heard her name. Sometimes she definitely heard Nav’s. 

When the release came, it tore through Harrow, left her shaking and twitching against the sheets, and when Ianthe began to slide away--merely to change positions, mind--Harrow grabbed her wrist with an iron grip and held her in place. 

“Don’t you dare stop,” Harrow ordered, the words pushed out through gritted teeth.

There were nights when Ianthe would stop right then and there, would revel in it as Harrow writhed alone against the sheets. Ianthe loved to watch it, to sit back and bring herself off to the sounds of Harrow’s desperation as she cursed at Ianthe and demanded more. This wasn’t one of those nights. This was a night for giving Harrow more than she asked for so that when she begged, she was begging for a different sort of reprieve. 

“Never,” Ianthe promised. She pulled Harrow closer and Harrow came easily, let herself be folded across Ianthe’s lap, one leg propped up against Ianthe’s shoulder. The position was even less dignified than the last, exposed and spread open for Ianthe’s hand, and Harrow pressed her face into the sheets, her open mouth panting against a threadcount intended for a God, now smeared with the paint of the Ninth. 

Once she’d maneuvered Harrow into position, she wasted no time driving Harrow right over her next edge, her fingers fast and merciless. Harrow’s entire body shuddered with release, rocking in Ianthe’s lap. Harrow attempted to squeeze her thighs shut, to hold it in, but Ianthe wasn’t finished. She started again, focused on Harrow’s clit this time, and when Harrow’s entire body rolled through another climax, Ianthe held her through it, brought her through with fingers that refused to quit. Harrow flailed and kicked, swore and cried out.

If Ianthe ended up kicked in the face, well, it wouldn’t be the first time. It was worth it to watch Harrow lose control, to watch her completely forget about those reins.

Ianthe imagined doing this at the center of their wedding, imagined the look on everyone’s face at the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House--of all people!--convulsing amidst a litany of low uncontrolled moans. 

Damn. Ianthe was going to have to get herself off again once Harrow was good and destroyed. 

“Again,” Harrow said, and Ianthe started again, slow and teasing, wrist aching and fingers soaked. She reached for Harrow with her other hand and pushed skeletal fingers into Harrow’s mouth. Harrow moaned around them, sucked at the gold plating as her body lit itself on fire for the fourth time. Then a fifth, Harrow's body writhing as she worked herself on Ianthe's fingers, flesh and bone, and Harrow's hands twisted in the sheets as another wave rocked through her, feet and shoulders pushing her up and off the bed. Ianthe needed more of her, and the sixth was on Ianthe's tongue, Ianthe's hands holding Harrow down, the rush of her release a sacrament all on its own.

By seven there were tears in Harrow's eyes, and when Ianthe kissed her and said, "Do you think we can make it to nine?" Harrow cried out and came again.

Finally, when Harrow could no longer take it, when Ianthe’s hand began to revolt, Ianthe pulled the remains of Harrowhark Nonagesimus up against her side and kissed the sweat on that damp forehead. Harrow’s eyes were still an explosion. Eight and her entire body quivered with the echoes of too much, too many, too good. 

They made it to nine, just barely. All it took was one careful touch of Ianthe's bone fingers, just a single slide of golden bone and Harrow was gone. She shoved at Ianthe's hand, pushed her away with a cry as her body curled up in an attempt to hold it all in. Ianthe buried her fingers in her own cunt, her aching wrist bringing her off one final time while she watched Harrow hold onto every echo of pleasure, each trailing spark.

“I owe you everything,” Harrow said. It sounded like she was choking on her words, and for a moment, Ianthe wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell who she was talking to, if it was Harrow in control of the words or Gideon.

It didn’t matter. Ianthe’s heart still felt seen.

The truth, whether Harrow liked it or not, was that there was no one else for them. There was no one else who understood them quite like they understood each other. There were no other Gods in the Kingdom of Heaven, and Harrow could frantically finger herself until the end of her days and it wouldn’t be enough. They all knew it wouldn’t be enough. 

Ianthe was an irreplaceable part of this. She gave them the means, she gave them the world, and so they let her take. They let her tie. She took them apart, left them broken in Harrow’s body, sprawled across a stained and rumpled bed. She took them apart, and sometimes she even helped them put themselves back together afterward. Mostly she took them apart and hoped they’d lose some of the pieces, never to be found again.

No. She shouldn’t lie to herself, not on her wedding night. Ianthe had always been completely brutally honest when it came to herself.

The complete and brutal truth was that Ianthe would miss Nav if she was gone. She’d miss those hot eyes on her, the back and forth, the yank on Harrow’s reins. This was exactly how it should be. They were hers, both of them, and the teeth were Harrow. The kisses were Nav.

“Everything,” Harrow repeated. She reached for Ianthe, her grip hard on Ianthe's wrist. Ianthe looked down at her wife, at the supernova that had replaced her eyes. Harrow asked: "Are you listening?"

Ianthe stilled. She was listening. Harrow repeated it once more: "Everything."

Ianthe leaned down and captured Harrow's mouth in one final kiss. "I told her we were inevitable, Harry, didn’t I?”


End file.
